


Sheriarty 30 Day Challenge

by Anarfea



Series: Tumblr Ficlets [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, BDSM, Fluff, Gunplay, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Phone Sex, Rape Roleplay, Sparring, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2018-07-23 17:53:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7474035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarfea/pseuds/Anarfea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a collection of tumblr ficlets for the Sheriarty 30 Day Challenge. It is yet to be seen whether I can actually do all 30 of them or not. Each prompt that I do will be its own chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1: A Day in the Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I took the 1st Promt of the Sheriarty 30 Day Challenge rather literally and did a sheriarty inspired remix of The Beatles song [A Day in the Life](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=usNsCeOV4GM).

**A Day in the Life**

 

We’re in the news today, my love

The tragic tale of Sir Boasts-A-Lot

And though the news was pretty sad

Still, I just had to laugh

I saw your photograph

 

You smashed your brains in front of Barts

You didn’t notice that our parts had changed

A crowd of people stood and stared

Your hair was wreathed in red

Nobody else knew the truth–they all thought you were really dead

 

You should be in the news, my love

You shot a man point blank–right in the head

Your brother couldn’t look away

I wish I could have seen

What we could have been

And did you miss me, love?

_Sat down, and made a list_

_Don’t know how it came to this_

_Took a plane and flew back to the start_

_I flew apart and saw that I was you_

_Even though I know you’re dead_

_You are here inside my head_

_Then I made the leap and hurtled down_

_When I hit the ground I woke up from my dream_

 

You’ll see my face today, my love

On every telly screen in Old England

On all the screens both great and small

The Virus hacked them all

Inside your mind a waterfall–we’ll be together after all

And did you miss me, love?


	2. Day 2: Beard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HLV AU where everything is the same except that it’s Jim in Sherlock’s bedroom instead of Janine.
> 
> Thanks to Ariane de Vere for the [HLV Transcript](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/67234.html)!

“Your bedroom door is shut,” observed Mycroft.

Sherlock rolled his eyes into his head and sighed, curling sideways in his chair.

John found it odd to watch Sherlock from the kitchen, to be able to see through the empty space where his own chair should have been.

Mycroft walked towards his door, deducing as he went. “You haven’t been home all night. So, why would a man who has never knowingly closed the door without the direct orders of his mother bother to do so on this occasion?” Mycroft turned the handle to demonstrate the door was unlocked but didn’t actually open it.

Sherlock abruptly sat up. “Okay, stop! Just stop. Point made.”

John’s jaw dropped. “Jesus, Sherlock.” Even after Molly had scoffed ‘clean?’ and slapped Sherlock, John hadn’t quite wanted to believe there were drugs stashed at 221b. Sherlock had gone out and ended up in a drug den. A one time lapse. He wasn’t shooting up at home. Couldn’t be. Except apparently, he was.

Sherlock bounced off the couch and made his way to the loo, shouting “And stay out of my bedroom!” through the bathroom door as he shut it behind him.

John blatantly ignored him and made a beeline for Sherlock's door. Whatever Sherlock had in there, he’d find it and flush it.

The door opened from the inside before he could lay his hand to the door knob.

“Oh, John, hi-i,” sang Jim Moriarty.

John stumbled backwards against the wall. “Sherlock!” he shouted.

“How are you?”

“Jim?” his voice caught in his throat. This whole thing was an absurd dream. He was going to wake up next to Mary and realize that Sherlock’s relapse, Moriarty, the whole of it was the product of bad curry and an overactive imagination.

“Sorry,” Jim said with a yawn. “Not dressed.”

John noticed for the first time that Jim was wearing one of Sherlock’s shirts--a pale green one he’d not seen Sherlock wear before, but which had to be Sherlock’s because the sleeves were too long and Moriarty had his shirts tailored. _And I further deduce,_ he heard in Wiggins’ pretentious brogue, _that he isn’t wearing anything underneath it._

“Has everybody gone?” Jim asked. “I heard shouting.”

“Yes, they’re gone.” The whole conversation was so absurd he found himself responding instead of reaching for the tire lever still down one leg of his pants.

“God, look at the time.” Jim glanced at the clock. “I’ll be late.” He picked up a French press from the counter. “Sounded like an argument. Was it Mike?”

“Mike?”

Jim rolled his eyes. “His brother. The Ice Man. They’re always fighting.” He frowned. “Hopefully not about me. I bet he doesn’t approve.”

“The Ice Man. You actually call him that?”

Jim shrugged. “Yeah, to his face, even. Mycroft and Sherlock. The Ice Man and the Virgin. Well, not anymore.” He smirked, then handed John the French press. “Could you be a love and put some coffee on?”

John blinked at the coffee pot in his hand. “Sure, right, yeah.”

“Thanks.” Jim smiled, fluttering his eyelashes and brushing his fingers across John’s shoulder. “Ooh, how’s Mary? How’s married life?”

“She’s fine.” His tone was wooden. “We’re both fine, yeah.”

He made his way to the cupboard on autopilot. He was making _fucking coffee_ for _Jim fucking Moriarty._

“Oh, it’s over there now.” Jim pointed at a different cupboard. “Where’s Sherl?”

John choked back a guffaw. _Sherl!_ Sherlock must hate that. “He’s just having a bath. I’m sure he’ll be out in a minute.”

Jim chortled. “Oh, like he ever is!”

John muttered an agreement and then doggedly went to the cupboard Jim had indicated and took out the can of instant coffee.

“Morning!” Jim called through the bathroom door in a lilting sing song. “Room for a little one?!” He went into the bathroom without waiting for Sherlock to reply.

John half expected Sherlock to shout in alarm, but instead he called “Morning,” and chuckled. Jim _giggled,_ and then there was more giggling and splashing. John shook his head to clear it. He was going to wake up any minute now. And until then, he would make coffee.

 

Jim collapsed against the door, sliding down with his legs outstretched. _Oh my god,_ he mouthed silently.

Sherlock grinned and reached for him, body glistening from the bath.

Jim stripped out of Sherlock’s shirt and climbed into the tub with him. The water was almost too hot, but he scooted close to Sherlock anyway.

Sherlock attempted to pull him in for a kiss.

Jim turned his head. “Brush your teeth, first.”

Sherlock bit the join between his collarbone and his neck. “Make me.”

Jim ran his fingers through his wet curls. “Mmm, tempting. But we can only rely on Johnny boy to mindlessly complete mundane tasks for so long. In a few minutes he’ll come to his senses and call the police. Or your brother.”

“Sod my brother.”

Jim bit his lower lip. “Kinky.”

Sherlock splashed him.

Jim reached behind him and poured a dollop of conditioner into his hand, then rubbed it into Sherlock’s hair. Wouldn’t want to frizz those curls by using shampoo first. “Also, you have your meeting with Magnussen. So I’m afraid, my dear, that all we have time for is getting you cleaned up.” He massaged Sherlock’s scalp.

“Pitty.”

“I’ll make it up to you later.” He ran his fingers down the side of Sherlock’s face, frowning when he made contact with his stubble. “You’ve got to shave this.”

“What for?”

“You look like you spent the night in a drug den.”

“That _is_ rather the point,” Sherlock huffed.

“Yes, well, I don’t like it.”

Sherlock ran his thumb over Jim’s chin. “ _You_ haven’t shaved.”

He shrugged. “Stubble looks sexy on me.”

Sherlock pouted. “Fine. But if I shave now, I get to shave you later.”

Jim arched an eyebrow.

“Everywhere,” Sherlock smirked and pitched his voice low. “With a straight razor.”

Jim found himself unable to suppress a grin. “You have yourself a deal.”


	3. Day 3: Drunk Shenanigans

“NeverhaveIever played a drinking game,” slurred Sherlock.

Jim rolled his eyes. “God, you really are terrible at this, aren’t you.” He held out his snifter to Sherlock. “Cheers.”

“But I haven’t--”

“Dollface. You’re playing now.”

Sherlock frowned, then clinked his glass to Jim’s and took a sip.

Jim swirled his own glass and sniffed. Notes of vanilla. He made a face then took a sip. Heat slithered down his throat. He smacked his lips. Entirely too sweet. “I still don’t know why we can’t drink the Talisker.”

“Hennessy s’more expensive. Just ‘magine his face.” He smiled into his glass and slid forward in his chair, pointing at Jim. “Never have I ever robbed a bank.”

Jim shook his head. “It’s my turn, love, but I’ll give you the freebie since I haven’t.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “Y’did, though.”

“I opened the vault. Didn’t take anything. Doesn’t count.”

“Fine,” Sherlock took another sip.

“You don’t have to drink unless you--never mind. You’re wasted.”

Sherlock grinned. “C’mere.”

Jim stood up and walked over to Sherlock’s chair.

Sherlock held up his phone and snapped a selfie with Jim.

He rolled his eyes.

“Better one. Do something.”

Jim pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s temple.

Sherlock flushed, but took a picture. “‘M texting Anthea. Andrea. That’s her real name, you know, Andrew.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“I could text Mycroft, but ‘s three in the morning. He’s not coming t’he Diogenes, fat git. Just gonna text her anyway.”

“How very considerate of you.”

Sherlock’s phone rang _. Gimme Gimme Gimme (A Man After Midnight)._ He’d changed it after their fourth round.

“Hello, I’m wasted!” he sang.

“I can tell,” said a crisp woman’s voice on the other end of the line.

“I suppose you’ll tell my big brother.”

“Yes, but not until morning. Right now, I’m calling a cab which will be outside the Diogenes in five. I expect you to get into it. Alone.”

“Snot happening.” He grinned at Jim. “Tell my brother I’ve never ever had sex in his office.” He hung up.

Jim gently pried the phone from Sherlock’s fingers and put it into his own pocket. “And you won’t be tonight, either.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not going to take advantage of you.”

“Snowone’s taking advantage.”

“Like I said.”

“But--”

Jim pressed a finger to his lips.

“Never have I ever snogged on Mycroft’s sofa?”

Jim kissed his forehead. “Fine.”


	4. Day 4: Consulting Boyfriends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I was at a wedding this weekend so I missed days 4 and 5. I'll try to make up and get back on schedule this week.

“Hypothetically,” asked Jim, “which do you think would make more of an impact: ricin applied to the tip of an umbrella or polonium in tea?”

Sherlock frowned without looking up from his microscope. “Are you trying to pin a murder on the FSB?”

“Mayyyybe,” Jim folded his newspaper and set it down on the kitchen table. “I thought you didn’t want to know. Plausible deniability and what not.”

“You’re right,” agreed Sherlock. “I don’t. Just pointing out that both of these methods are rather conspicuous, and that, hypothetically speaking, thallium is less detectable. Alternatively, you could use cyanide, which though more detectable, is also readily attributable to accidental consumption of apple seeds or apricot kernels or what not. There’s even an idiotic ‘health food’ trend involving the consumption of the later.” He removed the mold culture he’d been growing from these past few weeks from beneath his microscope and replaced it with his control petri dish.

“I’ll keep that in mind in case I need to assassinate someone discreetly,” mused Jim, “but I was looking for maximum impact.”

“Polonium, then. Radioactivity tends to make everyone go into hysterics.”

“You’re curious,” said Jim.

“I’m really not. If you do anything too dramatic I’m sure I’ll hear of it from Mycroft, and if I don’t, then it probably wasn’t that interesting in the first place.

Jim touched his elbow. “You know--look at me, Sherl.”

He pushed the microscope to the side and folded his arms, pulling free of Jim.

“If you want to know what I do, I’ll tell you.”

“We agreed it was safer I not know.”

“Yes, because you could be compelled to testify against me.”

“Right.”

“You couldn’t be, though, if we were married.”

Sherlock sat with his arms folded a full two minutes, lips pressed together, eyelids blinking rapidly. At last, he unfolded his arms and allowed his eyes to focus on Jim. “Was that a marriage proposal?”

Jim flushed. “I was just saying, hypothetically, that if--”

“Yes.”

A slow smile started twitching at the corners of Jim’s mouth and erupted into a shit-eating grin. “So you’ll marry me?”

“So we can talk about your work, yes,” Sherlock deadpanned, fighting hard to keep his expression blank, watching the flicker of fear, confusion, and pique flicker across Jim’s face before devolving into affection.

“Insufferable prat.”

Sherlock smirked. “You still love me.”

Jim smiled. “I do.”


	5. Day 5: Cooking

Jim sniffed the air as he walked into the kitchen. “So you _can_ cook. And here I thought you subsisted entirely on takeaway.”

“It’s just chemistry,” muttered Sherlock. “Slow cooking the onions breaks down the sugars, caramelizing them. Cook them until they’re soft, and salt them to bring out their flavor. The spices add complexity to the flavor, but in and of themselves they’re actually quite simple.” He pulled the flowers off a sprig of fresh thyme and sprinkled them over his onions.

“Thyme, for instance, gets its taste from thymol. Distill it to its pure essence, and it will irritate the skin, eyes, mucous membranes. This is because most of the compounds that give spices their flavor are actually the plants’ chemical weapons, which evolved to prevent animals from eating them.”

“And what about you,” Jim murmured, snaking his arms around Sherlock from behind and nibbling at his ear lobe. “Have you got natural defenses?”

Sherlock shifted into a squat, dropping his center of gravity, and thrust his elbows outwards, bracing his palms against his thighs. He closed his palm over Jim’s clasped hands and stepping behind Jim with his right leg, throwing him off balance. He grasped Jim’s trousers at the outside of his thigh and lifted him up, twirling Jim’s body behind his back like a swing dancer executing a lift and tossing him gracelessly to the floor.

“Oooh,” Jim grinned up at him. “You do.”

“Admit it, you wanted me to do that.”

“Something like it, yes. I’ve seen that bartitsu certificate hanging above your bed, and I’ve always wanted a demonstration of your skills.”

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, his expression dark and predatory. He stepped between Jim’s legs, nudging them apart with his feet. “Lucky for you, the onions need to cook down at least twenty-five minutes.”

Jim smirked. “I hear in France, they cook onions for soup in a cast iron pot in an oven on low _all day_.”

Sherlock matched Jim’s half-smile. “Trust me, both you and the onions will be pliant and sweet in half an hour.”


	6. Day 6: Phone Call

“You remembered my number.”

“Eidetic memory.”

“I thought you deleted things you didn’t think were important.”

“I do.”

“So you did like the touch with the underwear.”

“Not quite. Actually it was your hands.”

“My hands?”

“They’re surprisingly delicate. Well manicured, but that wasn’t a surprise, given the amount of effort you put into the rest of your personal grooming when you’re ‘playing gay.’ Except you weren’t playing.”

“I’m always playing. So are you.”

“What are you doing with them now?”

“My hands?”

“Are you touching yourself?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you’ve had your fingertips pressing against the seam of your trousers since you saw my number on your caller ID.”

“Are you sure you’re not projecting?”

“Stop palming yourself through your clothing and unzip your flies.”

“Bossy tonight, are we?”

“Merely accustomed to getting my own way”

“Perhaps you should learn to live with disappointment.”

“Denying yourself to spite me isn’t what you really want and you know it. See, I was right, your breathing’s changed.”

“So has yours.”

“Hmm.”

“Are you imagining it’s my hand?”

“Yes.”

“Personally, I would prefer your mouth. It’s like a plump, perfect heart. I want to fuck it. Slide into your throat, make you take it all until you choke.”

“You think you could make me get on my knees for you?”

“I think I could make you beg to be allowed to.”

“You have a high opinion of yourself.”

“Let’s just say there’s a reason people call me Mr Sex.”

“You thought I was a virgin.”

“Maybe I was manipulating you into calling me to prove you weren’t.”

“Maybe I knew that and didn’t care.”

“Are you close?”

“Are you serious?”

“I see I’ve struck a nerve.”

“Hardly.”

“Don’t worry pet. If I let you fuck me I’ll expect you to last, but if you keep going too long now you might chafe.”

“We’ll see whose chafed.”

“Mmm. I do like a bit of rough.”

“Yes. I imagine you’d like me to take you on all fours, on the floor, bruising your knees.”

“Hmm.”

“I can hear you, you know. The sound of your hand on your prick. But I wouldn’t let you touch yourself. You’d come from my cock, or not at all. I’d hold your hands behind your back.”

“Yes.”

“I’d put my foot on the nape of your neck and fuck you into the floor.”

“ _Yes_.”

“Come for me.”

“Yes, Sherlock. Yes.”


	7. Day 7: Kink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some user discretion is advised on this one. People who know me know my love of Sheriarty non-con, which this is not, per the rules of this challenge, but it plays with the tropes in the context of consensual rape fantasy. Enjoy ;)

The barrel of the gun is cold as it slips past his lips. The electric flavor of metal crackles against his teeth; the gun oil beads on his tongue.

“Look at me,” says Jim.

Sherlock does. Jim’s eyes are hooded with desire, and the fire that burns in them is dark. The hand which isn’t holding John’s Sig Sauer is tangled in Sherlock’s hair.

“I want to see your tongue.”

He hesitates.

Jim shoves the barrel deeper.

The sight scrapes the roof of his mouth. He gags.

“Your tongue.”

He opens his mouth and Jim pulls the gun back. A string of saliva connected his lips to the barrel.

“Lick it.”

He does.

Jim pulls the gun further away and makes him lean forward. He pulls his own hair. His arms ache; his elbows are bound with his own belt and his wrists with Jim’s. Three of the buttons on his shirt have popped open because of the way his binds thrust his chest forward.

The barrel warms with the heat of his mouth. Jim lets him lick for a few moments, then begins thrusting the barrel in and out.

“God, look at you. Those lips were absolutely made for sucking cock.”

He closes his eyes, tries to shake his head.

Jim tightens his fingers in his hair. The muzzle slides past his lips and reappears under his jaw. Jim rolls his hips forward, pressing his groin to Sherlock’s nose. The musk of him is noticeable even through his trousers. The outline of his cock across his thigh makes it apparent he’s not wearing pants, and the heat of his thighs colors Sherlock’s face, or maybe that’s the shame of being bound on his knees on the rug in his own flat.

Jim releases Sherlock’s hair and frees his cock, pushing it deep in his mouth. He tries to relax as much as he can, but Jim forces his head down, holding him in place until his eyes water and he thrashes in his binds.

“Bite me and it’s the gun again, and I will pull the trigger.”

He wills himself to relax, and Jim begins to thrust, holding his head in place and fucking his throat. His jaw aches. To his horror, he begins to drool, saliva coating his chin.

“What would Johnny boy say if he saw you now? Would he try to come galloping to your rescue, do you think? Try his luck and risk me blowing your brains out? Or would he just stand there with a stupid look on his face?”

John cannot know about this.

“Or maybe I’d bring him in on the fun. Make you suck him off. Would you like that?”

He shakes his head.

“You’re sure? Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?”

Some buried part of him rises to the surface, dizzy and flailing, like a diver coming up too fast and getting the bends. He snaps his fingers three times.

Jim pulls out, releases his hair, and drops to his knees. He sets the Sig on the floor and takes Sherlock’s face in his hands. “Are you okay?”

Words stick in his mouth, and not because his jaw aches and his mouth still tastes of Jim and metal. He nods.

Jim unbuckles the belt from around his elbows, which sends prickles of pain and relief down his arms, and then frees his wrists, rubbing at his hands. He wraps his arms around Sherlock and strokes his hair.

For several minutes, he just kneels with his head on Jim’s shoulder, drawing warmth from his chest. Jim rocks him lightly, which is humiliating and comforting at the same time. At last, he sits back on his heels and takes a trembling breath.

“I’m fine.”

Jim’s eyes narrow. “Yeah, not buying that one.”

“I just didn’t want … it isn’t true, about John.”

“Hon, I was just talking bollocks. Fantasy.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “You weren’t. You meant it.” He meets Jim’s eyes. “You’re jealous.”

Jim doesn’t contradict him, which is an admission in itself.

“I do … care for John. But not … I don’t want him. Not like that.”

Jim nods, but his jaw is tight.

Sherlock grasps his arm. “I mean it. I need you to know I mean it.”

“Okay.”

“I love you.” The words come out in a rush, and he instantly wishes he could call them back.

Jim’s baffled expression softens, a smile playing at the edges of his mouth. He folds Sherlock into his arms, and he doesn’t say it back, but Sherlock feels it, in the solidness of Jim’s arms around him, the tenderness of his fingers in his hair.

“Come to bed?” Sherlock asks.

Jim nods against him.


	8. Day 8: Unsent, Unread

Sometime around when he starts hearing John’s voice mocking him whenever he makes a deduction, he starts texting Jim. He doesn’t actually _send_ them, of course. Mycroft probably has Jim’s phone squirreled away in a bunker somewhere, just in case an old contact who’s been living under a rock asks the Consulting Criminal for a favor.

But he composes them, mostly on buses and trains--the most tedious part of unraveling Moriarty’s web is the _travel_. He’s spent most of the last two days in route from Omsk to Moscow, staring at the ceiling of a sleeping berth while his companions prattle away in Kazakh, which, apart from a few Turkish cognates he’s able to identify, he can’t understand. And so he wastes precious phone battery typing out texts to a dead man’s mobile and then deleting them. He supposes it’s better to distract himself with this than to climb down from his narrow bunk and go in search of something to quiet the thoughts spinning through his head like the wheels of the train beneath him; he passed a car filled with men playing cards on his way back from the loo who are almost certainly holding.

_Took down your cell in Omsk._

_I’m leaving the city now._

_Local graffiti and Russian social media memes suggest something terrible will befall me for attempting to leave._

He sets the phone on his chest and closes his eyes. The oscillation of the train should be soothing, the rocking motion only wakens the version of Jim which usually stays locked in a cell at the base of his brain stem. He flips onto his belly, pulling the thin pillow over his head in attempt to block out the deranged, sing song voice.

 _Rock-a-by Sherlock_  
_On the rooftop,_  
_When his mind blows_  
_Then off he will pop._  
_When his mind breaks,_  
_Then Sherlock will call._  
_Pick up the phone, baby,_  
_I owe you a fall._

“I owe you, too,” he whispers. He switches his phone off and counts the minutes until Moscow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, while researching this ficlet, I found that Omsk is apparently the butt of Russian memes? For more info, check [here](http://weirdrussia.com/2015/08/20/dont-try-to-leave-the-city-of-omsk/).


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's been a really long time. Like, 18 months. But, apparently, some of you loyal souls are still subscribed. So I decided I would start updating this! I don't think I can do one ever day, but I will do 30 of these!

The drone of slightly off open fifths greated Sherlock as he opened the door to Jim’s flat. Gradually, the interval resolved as Jim brought the D string in tune with the A.

“I didn’t know you played,” said Sherlock.

“Not very well.” Jim was facing away from him. He looked out the window, which overlooked the Thames.

“I can see that,” said Sherlock. He walked up behind Jim and adjusted his position, gently rolling his shoulder blades down his back. “Play me something.”

Jim began the Prelude by the Five Pieces by Shostakovich. 

Sherlock’s breath caught. “And me without my violin.”

The faintest hint of a smile stirred at the corners of Jim’s mouth.

Sherlock hummed the second violin part along, notes moving below Jim. He’d played this part many times as a child alongside Eurus while Mycroft accompanied the two of them on the piano. Jim had to have known this.

He’d always found the Prelude so sad. There was a naked longing in the notes, reaching with for something just beyond the players’ grasp. Reaching, retreating, reaching, retreating, and finally fading into nothingness.

For a moment, the two of them stood silent in the stillness. Fortunately, Jim didn’t beginne the Gavotte when the Prelude finished. That would have been rather harder for him to hum or sing.

“That was lovely,” he said.

Jim’s lips curled into an almost-smile which suggested he was pleased. He removed his violin from his shoulder and handed it to Sherlock. “Play me something?”

Sherlock shook his head, taking the violin and lying it in its case, which sat atop the coffee table in the center of Jim’s sitting room.

He encircled Jim with his arms. “I thought we might play a different sort of duet.”


End file.
